


Maybe You're the Song I Want to Sing

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), First Meetings, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Lingerie, M/M, Model Shiro (Voltron), Musician Keith (Voltron), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 02:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20368894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: In the midst of a deep writer's block, Keith never would have expected that he'd find musical inspiration in a lingerie model's photographs. Or in the man himself. But Shiro makes him want to write poetry, to sing a thousand songs.Other things, too.





	Maybe You're the Song I Want to Sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sablensanguine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sablensanguine/gifts).

> Fic request from [@sablensanguine](https://twitter.com/sablensanguine), who asked for some rocker/model AU, with bottom Shiro in lingerie. 
> 
> If you want a sense of what type of lingerie Shiro's wearing, I pulled most of the inspiration from [here](https://www.instagram.com/karolinalaskowskalingerie/). (nsfw link, obviously.)
> 
> Also, please accept that music industry stuff might/is likely inaccurate in this. Listen. We all know why we're here.

Romelle stops the video with a definitive click of her keyboard and swivels in her chair to face the four of them. “So, what do you think?” she asks. “I thought this would really fit the aesthetic you’re going for.” 

On either side of him, Keith’s bandmates murmur general approval. Keith knows that he should probably voice his opinion, but all he can really manage is a blank stare at the computer screen. He’s not entirely sure what his face is doing exactly, but he fears that he must look ridiculous. 

At his silence, Lance elbows him hard in the side and, instinctively, Keith stomps hard on his foot. Lance squawks in pain and shields himself behind Hunk for protection. Whatever. He started it. 

Hunk side-eyes Keith with a frown. “You okay?” 

So maybe his slack-jawed staring wasn’t exactly subtle. 

Romelle bites her lip, misinterpreting Keith’s look and silence. “If you think I should change something—” 

“No, it’s. Um. It’s really good,” Keith says and knows he sounds off. He’s willing to sound stupid if it means he doesn’t have to explain just what, exactly, has stolen his attention. He clears his throat. “Seriously,” he insists when Romelle only looks distressed. “You did a really great job. I think it’s perfect. Really, no notes from me.” 

He hopes his smile is convincing. But then—

“He liked the dude in the lingerie,” Pidge pipes up. 

She says this with such a painfully scathing tone that it’s a wonder to Keith that he doesn’t just wither up and die on the spot. 

Keith turns bright pink. Hunk and Lance exchange a look and Keith knows he’s been had. 

Contrary to his bandmates’ reactions, Romelle perks up. “Isn’t the lingerie so pretty?” she gushes. “That’s Allura’s designs— I thought she’d be the perfect choice for wardrobe! Those pieces are from her newest line and—” 

Romelle rambles on, singing Allura’s praises, and Keith’s just grateful she’s focusing on the underwear designs instead of the man wearing them.

It’s not Keith’s fault. He didn’t think he was going to be assaulted by this when he came into work today. He knew they’d be reviewing Romelle’s pitch for their music video but he didn’t expect the video to feature _a man in lingerie._ A man who is devastatingly, perfectly Keith’s type, like every pathetic wet dream he’s had since puberty. 

The video itself is simple, just a quick mock-up of what Romelle envisions for their first official music video. Their band is still in its beginnings, realistically, but they’ve made a name for themselves in Altea City— this is the next logical step to up their game. Keith knows if they nail these next few auditions and get this music video produced, they’ll really start seeing a rise in their notoriety. 

_That’s_ what Keith should be focusing on— getting his band the recognition they deserve, to keep making the music he’s always been passionate about. Never mind he’s felt stuck for months; this is his chance to find that inspiration again. He should focus on that and not how good Romelle’s random model looks sprawled out on a bed, his smile secretive and enigmatic as he stares into the camera. 

“I can let you all think on it, if you want,” Romelle says. “Look through it, decide if you want to make any changes. I don’t need to send the video off for another couple days.” She looks especially pleased with herself, face flushed pink from praise and her smile sweet. “I tried really hard to capture your work’s _mood_.” 

“You did great,” Hunk tells her, sincerely, and Romelle beams brighter. 

And what Hunk says is true. Once Keith stops thinking with his dick and recalls the video more logically, she really nailed it. The video’s all darkened vibes in the beginning with the building crescendo of night skies, flashing lights, and moody urban landscapes. She’s incorporated nods to 80s-style fashion and music while incorporating the rock aesthetic of Altea City’s underground music scene. It’s uniquely urban, all graffiti and shooting stars, just like they try to homage in their music— a love letter to Altea City itself and their modern reimagining of what rock can be. 

Keith can picture what the video will look like when it’s fully produced— the coupling of the storyline with the shots of them playing the song on a sound-stage. Romelle’s pitch follows the lyrics narratively with thematic images thrown in to heighten the interpretation. It’s both story and art at once. 

Looking at Romelle’s video, Keith actually feels excited to get started on the project, a marked improvement from his earlier mood: ambivalent at best. 

“So,” Keith says, cautiously, “What’s the likelihood that, uh…” 

Pidge gives him a look when Keith trails off, but he ignores it. He fumbles, unsure how to voice the question without sounding like an obvious pervert. 

He decides to just push past it. His friends and bandmates are going to make fun of him regardless and they all know it. He resigns himself to sounding like a dirty old man and asks: “What’s the likelihood that we’ll get that guy to be in the video, too?” 

“Hm?” Romelle hums, as if she doesn’t know who Keith’s talking about. Maybe she doesn’t. She turns back towards the video, as if that’ll jog her memory, and lets out a little _ah_ of realization. “I used the images to help emphasize the lingerie and get Allura on board as designer. I didn’t necessarily have him in mind for the video’s protagonist. I’m not sure if he’s available… Do you guys want him specifically?” 

“Clearly Keith does,” Lance snickers. He’s leaning against Hunk’s shoulder opposite Keith, well out of foot-stomping range. Hunk’s temporary protection makes Lance bold, clearly, as he snipes, “Maybe Romelle should call in a favor and put him out of his misery.” 

Keith closes his eyes and inhales sharply, embarrassed and frustrated. He loves his band and he loves being part of the group, but the sad truth is they’re often in each other’s pockets— and Keith’s general lack of romantic prospects means Keith being attracted to someone _always_ becomes a Thing for them. They just can’t resist the proverbial smell of blood in the water. 

“Shut up, Lance. I was just asking.” 

“I could ask Allura,” Romelle says, considering. “But I don’t know if she’d know him or how to contact him— I just used these images because it’s her most recent line. I could check for you, Keith?” 

“_Don’t_,” Keith says, with deep feeling. He lifts his hand, rubbing his thumb against the pinched skin between his eyebrows. “Just, forget it. Never mind. This all looks good, Romelle.” 

“Are you sure?” Romelle presses. “I don’t mind—” 

“I said it’s fine,” Keith says, wishing he could erase this entire conversation and start over. “Forget I said anything.” 

“If you’re sure,” Romelle hedges. She turns back to her computer, clicking away. “Regardless, I’m sending the video to everyone—” Keith closes his eyes again as his friends start snickering, “— so if you have any suggested changes, let me know by tomorrow? Otherwise, I can send it off to the PR team.” 

“Better study it closely,” Pidge says with a smirk. He can’t very well stomp on _her_ foot and they both know it. 

Keith takes one look at his three bandmates, his scowl deepening. Finally, he snaps, “Are we going to practice or what?” 

-

Later that same day, after trudging home from band practice, Keith collapses into his bed and just lies there, face down. Another long day of practice and another long day without any new material from Keith. 

It’s becoming a real problem and he knows it. It’s been months since he’s been able to write a new song; he’s not the only songwriter in the group, but most of their successful hits have been his. Unfortunately for the band, he’s had no inspiration in basically a year; everything he’s written has been absolute shit. 

Keith is a professional. He knows he can’t wait around for _inspiration_ to strike. But even so, he’s written his way through several notebooks with no new song to show for it. 

He groans and rolls onto his back just as his dog jumps up beside him. Kosmo isn’t supposed to get up on the bed, but Keith stopped enforcing that rule months ago. Kosmo lets out a low, doggy sigh and settles in beside Keith. 

“Yeah, me too, buddy,” Keith mutters and starts petting through his fur. He pulls out his phone with his other hand, thumbing through his messages and texts. 

_Just write a dumb love song,_ Lance told him just a month ago. _Something. Anything. Love songs are always popular._

Keith can’t write love songs, though. He’s never actually been in love before. Everything he writes feels stupid and insincere when he doesn’t have a real emotion to anchor it to. 

He opens Romelle’s email and, with a deep sigh, clicks the video open, downloading it onto his phone. He knows Romelle and the whole band wanted to use this music video opportunity to produce a new song but, thanks to Keith, they’ve settled on something from their latest album instead. 

Better than nothing, maybe. But still could be much better. 

Keith presses play. It’s for research purposes, he thinks to himself. 

It’s a rough draft of their envisioned music video, but Keith can still sense the power in it— the backlit streets, the glitter of neon lights fuzzed out in the distance, a sheet of rain falling across an abandoned roadway. He can hear Hunk’s base weaving with Lance’s steady drumming beat. There’s Pidge’s synth touches and Keith’s guitar, the subtle blending of their voices. 

Fuck, he wishes he could write a song like this again. He just wants to recapture it. 

Keith nearly drops his phone when he sees the model again. It’s not his fault. It’s not that he’d forgotten about the scantily-clad guy, but it’s arresting to see him staring boldly up at Keith through his phone screen. He’s sprawled out on a bed, posed in casual elegance. The sleek silver of prosthetic fingers curl into his white hair, lips curved into a subtle smile. 

The white sheets he’s lying on offset the black fabric. The delicate lace stretches over his chest, from solar plexus to his throat, straps curving around his neck and over his pecs, dark nipples visible beneath the mesh of fabric. The matching bottoms are similar, boy-shorts style and hugging his hips, darker fabric covering him but not enough to hide the shape of his dick. 

Keith knows he shouldn’t be staring, but he can’t help it. He rewinds the video to get a better look before it floods away to a different shot. He studies the look in the model’s eyes— somehow both confident and shy, inviting and sweet. 

He imagines the way this man would stretch out on red satin sheets instead, how he’d lift his hand and point at Keith, crook his finger as if to say, _Come over here. Come to me._

Keith knows he’s being pathetic. He knows he’s also, frankly, being an utter creep. This isn’t appreciation of the lingerie so much as it’s appreciation of the guy. Not that either option is great. 

The video transitions— it’s the same model, elaborate makeup down one side of his face and flushed over his chest. The make-up work makes his face look like a nebula, dots of stars in a sea of pink and blue swirled together like a night’s sky across his cheeks and over his full lips. He isn’t smiling in this shot, eyes averted and downcast, his chin tipped just so. 

There’s something about the way he looks in this photograph, how the stars look just a literal breath away from his lips. A flash of a lyric plucks at the back of Keith’s mind. _I’d rip the sky down just for you / rip down the sky just to see—_

No. Saccharine. Expected. Every song he knows talks with such tired metaphor. 

The man’s hair is long in this shot, white hair curling over his cheeks and flowing down over his shoulders to kiss his collarbone. His prosthetic is missing and Keith appreciates that the model and the photographer haven’t shied away from it, that the angle of his body emphasizes the curve of his shoulders, the absence. 

The white lingerie he wears is a similar style to the black piece— stretched over his clavicle in gentle mesh, straps dancing over his shoulders, the lace closing around his neck. The same boy-shorts style white lace pulls taut over his hips as he sits with his legs tucked under him, garter belt attached to matching lace stockings. If Keith were feeling sappy, he’d say that the guy looks like an angel— all white hair, white lace, and painted to look like the cosmic sky. 

There’s a song in that, maybe. 

The video continues— alternating shots of the man in lingerie against a darkened sky, the band’s music reaching its apex. Keith thinks to himself that the video would be strengthened if, instead of on a bed, the man was sprawled out in a field, reaching up towards the sky, the waves of green grass licking around him, obscuring him from view except in an aerial shot. He imagines the man in a field of clover, the rain pouring down on him. It’d be perfect. Aesthetically speaking. 

Not that he’ll complain about the shots here— alternating between white and black lingerie, short and long hair. There’re shots of his face, mouth pressed to a black laced glove, piercings in his ear and a tattoo on his wrist. His eyes are so gentle as he looks into the camera, like he’s about to start laughing. 

Keith’s favorite shot is the last one— the man lying out on a couch, arms tucked under his chin, fully facing the camera and laughing. It’s almost impossible to see the lingerie in the shot, which seems counter to what Allura’s lingerie brand would want, but there’s no denying that the guy looks happy, genuinely happy, pressing his face into his gloved hand, cheeks pink and just the kiss of black sheer lace on his shoulder. 

Keith wants to know who he is. 

The video ends and Keith lets his screen dim and then shut off. He lets his phone flop forward on his chest as he stares up at his ceiling, fingers combing through his dog’s fur. 

Maybe someone better could write a song about it. 

The truth of the matter is, Keith’s terrified of his writer’s block. Every word he’s tried to write is like pulling teeth. He’s terrified of stopping, terrified of admitting that it might simply be gone. Whatever spark he had at the start of all this. That if he dares stop, it’ll all be over. If he stops, the lyrics will never come back again. 

Keith breathes in, slowly, and lets it back out again. 

“I guess this is a sign I need to start dating or something, huh?” he asks Kosmo. 

He scratches behind his dog’s ear then rolls onto his side. Kosmo noses into his hand and Keith closes his eyes, letting the memory of his music wash over him.

-

A few days later at band practice, Romelle shoulders open the door and calls, “Good news!” 

Keith looks up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, tuning his guitar. “What’s up?” 

“I got the sign-off about the storyline for the music video!” Romelle chirps, pleased, holding up a stapled packet of papers on a clipboard. “And Allura’s signed on to be the designer!”

While Keith’s heart leaps into his chest, Hunk asks, “Uhh, that doesn’t mean _we _have to wear lingerie or something, right?” 

“I’d wear lingerie for Allura,” Lance announces and is pointedly ignored by the rest of the group. 

“Allura designs other styles, too,” Romelle explains. “You won’t be required to wear anything from her lingerie line. That might be too risqué even for us… But I guess that’s up to her, huh?” 

She taps her hand on the clipboard and starts listing off the upcoming schedule for the next few weeks. There’s storyboarding, designing, auditions, filming, dubbing, and the like. Keith had no idea there was so much involved in making a music video, but he supposes that’s why Romelle’s their manager and publicist. They’re just the _talent_, or whatever.

Keith plucks at one string of his guitar and keeps tuning. 

He almost asks if there’s any way to get the model guy to audition but decides he doesn’t want to deal with the teasing from his bandmates. They’ve only just today stopped poking fun at him for being so invested in lingerie. (“Guess we know what we’re getting you for your birthday,” Lance teased earlier. Keith bypassed stomping on his foot and kicked him right in the knee instead.) 

“Guess that means we should start practicing, huh?” Keith asks, blushing and hating that he’s blushing. His notebook sits beside his hip, empty save for scribbles and crossed out words. 

-

“Why does Keith get to wear the red jacket?” Lance whines weeks later, watching as Keith shrugs into his wardrobe-approved outfit. 

“Because that’s the outfit Allura designed for him,” Romelle says for the fifth time in so many minutes, scribbling something out on her schedule list. 

Lance looks scandalized as Keith meets his eyes and zips his jacket up, pointedly, unable to hold back a smirk. “It’s not fair,” Lance moans. “Why does Keith get to look so cool?” 

“It’s not my fault you think a cropped red jacket is the height of fashion,” Keith says, although secretly he likes the jacket a lot. It fits him nicely, snug but not in a way that’ll impede his movement as her performs. 

They’re about an hour into their first day of filming. Keith hates how obscenely early it is, but he figures they all must suffer for their art. At least there’s catering. Keith’s already downed two cups of coffee in about fifteen minutes and the jitters are starting to set in. 

“Everything fitting okay?” Romelle asks. “Allura said she was going to be here to make any adjustments, but she won’t be here for another half hour or so. Oh! And she asked if it was okay if she brought a friend. I told her it was, so if you see someone randomly wandering around, don’t freak out.” 

Keith snorts as he tugs on some fingerless gloves to complete his ensemble. “Right. Good thing you warned me or else I was going to_ totally _freak out. Stranger Danger, ahhh oh no ahhh, etcetera.” 

Romelle rolls her eyes, ignoring Keith’s attitude. “Anyway, once you’re all finished, we’ll head to the stage. We need to do light and sound checks before we get started.” 

“All I’m saying is that once Allura gets a load of my physique,” Lance says, flexing into a lunge and staring at himself in the floor-length mirror mounted to the wall, “she’ll realize she needs to adjust my outfit into something a little cooler.” 

Pidge sticks her head out from behind the modesty curtain sequestering a quarter of the room for her own wardrobe changing. She throws out a dismissive, “Like anyone will see you from behind your drums, anyway.” 

Keith chuckles as the rest of them finish the final adjustments on their clothes, primping and buttoning up. Keith can’t imagine what changes Allura will need to make, but in the meantime, Romelle shoves the four of them down the hall towards the hair and makeup room. Keith’s starting to feel a bit like a circus performer, and he flinches at least four times as the makeup artist come at him with eyeliner. He flinches so often that he nearly gets stabbed in the eye insetad. At least the stylists only sling his hair into a low ponytail instead of the elaborate faux-mohawk they’re giving Pidge. 

“Sorry,” he mutters as the makeup artist attempts to line his eyelids again. He feels too exposed, awkward and uncertain. “I’m not used to this.” 

The makeup artist works wonders, giving Keith a cat-eye style before releasing him from his chair. 

Keith wanders over to the catering table afterwards to grab himself another cup of coffee, waiting for the light and sound adjustments. He already wants the day to be over. 

Allura swans in about a quarter of an hour later, a fluff of white hair trailing behind her and dressed in a sleek, silky dress and shawl, layers of pink and blue fabric swirling around her ankles. He figures it has to be Allura because he watches Lance’s mouth literally drop as she sweeps by. She pinches one of Hunk’s sleeves and then rolls it up over his bicep with an approving nod. 

“Much better,” she announces, smiling sweetly at him. 

She spots Keith and corners him there at the catering table as he tries to sip his black coffee and not die. “Oh, you have a nice face,” she says in greeting, like she’s surprised, and Keith blushes. “Have you considered modeling before? I think I have a card around here—” 

She digs through the many layers of silk and seems to come up short. 

“Um,” Keith says as she starts zipping and unzipping his jacket, smoothing it out and then bunching it up until she’s satisfied. She ends up leaving the thing entirely unzipped, exposing his loose shirt underneath. 

“So when you’re playing,” Allura says, “I want you to be sure to stare into the camera like it’s a lover, like you _want_ to be undressed.” 

“_Um,_” Keith says, startled. He has no idea how to respond to that.

“Allura,” a man’s voice says from behind her, “You’re just the designer today, not the director. Remember?” 

He sounds amused, warm and honeyed, and when Keith looks up past Allura’s shoulder, he nearly drops his coffee as he spots the model from the lingerie photographs. 

Keith nearly doesn’t recognize him with clothes on, but there he stands. His long silver hair’s tied up in a messy bun and he’s wearing a leather jacket and the tightest fucking pair of black jeans that Keith’s ever seen. Keith’s pretty sure that his ears are buzzing, all sound escaping him. All he can do is stare. 

His one solace in this moment is that his bandmates aren’t witness to his freak-out, as they would never, ever let him live this reaction down. 

Romelle hadn’t said anything about the model being in the video itself. They were supposed to only be shooting their group shots today. And yet here this guy is, casually beautiful, a curl of his silver hair falling out of his bun and framing his face in a perfect curve, like he planned it that way. 

Allura tuts as she turns towards him. “I’m only giving helpful advice on how to make the clothes look their best, Shiro. I’m an artist.” 

The guy— _Shiro_— shoots Keith a commiserating look, like they’re old friends, like he’s letting Keith in on a secret. Keith is an idiot who can only stare back, unblinking, his mouth going dry. 

“He’s a musician, Allura, not a model,” Shiro scolds, although he only sounds fond. His gaze flickers over towards Keith, briefly. Keith swears he gives him a once-over. 

He’s going to dump this coffee all over himself. 

A thousand beginning notes to songs thrum in the back of his mind, discordant and competing for attention. 

“Allura!” Romelle calls from across the room, saving Keith from doing something totally embarrassing. Like start drooling. Or drop the coffee. 

Allura releases her death grip on Keith’s jacket so she can turn at the sound of her name. Romelle presses up onto her tiptoes and kisses Allura in greeting, then grins over at Keith. 

“I see you met our lead singer,” Romelle gushes, slinging her arm through Allura’s. “I told you he’d look great in red!” 

“And you were right!” Allura agrees. 

The two women fall quickly into logistics, Romelle leading Allura away to look over the other outfits. Lance looks like he’s about to pass out when Allura comes closer in a swirl of beautiful hair and silk. 

Keith feels like _he’s_ going to pass out, too, as he glances over at Shiro. Keith’s entire face is bright red; he can feel the heat radiating off him. He half-expects Shiro to turn and follow after Allura, but he doesn’t. Keith swallows, knowing that all he’s been doing is staring blatantly at what’s quite possibly the hottest man he’s ever seen in his entire goddamn life. 

And then Shiro smiles and it’s bright, sunny, and devastating— one corner tilting up higher than the other. “You think I’ll get yelled at if I get some coffee?” 

“I— I mean,” Keith gasps and hates how croaky his voice sounds. “It’s for cast and crew.” 

Shiro doesn’t move, hands in his pockets. He seems to get Keith’s implication, though, because he shakes his head. “I’m just a guest. Not cast or crew.” 

Allura’s friend that Romelle mentioned, then. Keith feels a little dip of disappointment in his gut that Shiro’s not about to start stripping down to lingerie and lounging on a bed in front of the cameras while Keith sings at him. 

“Oh,” Keith says. “I mean. Yeah. Have coffee.” 

Shiro steps forward, picking up a cup and filling it near to the brim. “Thanks,” Shiro says. “I didn’t get a chance to drink anything before coming here.” 

His prosthetic glints in the stage lights as he tips his head back and takes a long drink of the coffee. Keith stares blatantly at the way his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. 

“I’m Shiro, by the way,” he says once he lowers his cup, his smile sweet still as he looks at Keith. This time, Keith _definitely_ doesn’t mistake the sweep of Shiro’s eyes; he’s definitely getting checked out. 

He wonders if Shiro likes what he sees. 

He imagines someone out there must like red cropped jackets and sad looking musicians with cat-eyes and fingerless gloves. 

“Yeah, hi.” Keith nearly cringes at his own dismissive tone and clears his throat. “I’m Keith.” 

“Oh, I know,” Shiro says and then laughs, shyly. “I mean— when Allura mentioned she’d been hired to dress the Lions, I got really excited.” 

“You know about us?” Keith asks, genuinely shocked.

“Oh yeah! I’ve been a fan for… hmm, two years now, I think? I first saw you in the Balmera Ballroom,” Shiro admits, thinking. “I really liked your style. I thought it was really cool how you just let your drummer play a harmonica in the middle of a guitar solo.” 

Keith scowls. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He _didn’t_ get the go-ahead to do that.” 

Shiro laughs again, delighted, and Keith feels his sour expression immediately smooth out. His laugh is infectious, deep and rumbling up his chest. Keith wants to rip his jacket off and lick at his neck. He needs to get ahold of himself. 

“I figured. I remember you looking really pissed,” Shiro admits, voice fond. “Has he done it since?” 

“No,” Keith says. “And if he knows what’s good for him, he never will again.” 

He hopes it’ll make Shiro laugh. And it does, his entire face blooming around his smile as he chuckles. Keith feels all squirmy inside. 

“Anyway, congrats on getting a music video,” Shiro says. “That’s really big for you guys— I bet you’re going to knock it out of the park.” 

“Yeah,” Keith says, stomach feeling all tumbled with the praise. “Thanks.” 

“Is it for a song I’d know?” Shiro asks. “I try to go to your shows when I can, but it’s admittedly been a busy year, so I haven’t heard any of your newer stuff.” 

Keith can’t imagine there could ever be a universe where Shiro would show up to their shows and Keith would somehow fail to notice him in the crowd. And yet, that seems to be the case. Keith feels his ears burning. 

But the mention of new material makes him shake his head, glumly. “We don’t have anything new… This video’s for the Marmora EP.”

“Cool,” Shiro says and drinks from his cup with such casual elegance. Keith wants to bite his mouth and taste the coffee on his tongue. Fuck, he really needs to calm down. Shiro smiles at him. “Can’t wait to see how it turns out.” 

“Yeah,” Keith says, cringing internally. He sounds wooden and clunky. Shiro is a _fan._ Shiro, this hot man he’s seen in lingerie, _is a fan._ Keith is absolutely blowing it. “It’d probably be better if we had a new single to promote instead, though.” 

“Hey,” Shiro says, shrugging. He looks thoughtful. “We all need our breaks. I’m sure this will help hype up your next album.” 

His soft smile leaves something smoldering inside Keith’s belly. Keith can’t recall the last time he’s felt this way about anyone. His fingers itch to touch— to put what he’s feeling to words, the scratch of a pencil across a piece of paper. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, quietly. “Guess that’s one way to look at it.” 

He stares up at Shiro, drinking him in. It isn’t hard to imagine him stripped down, his hair loose around his face, his cheeks painted to reflect the night sky. Keith’s always scoffed at the concept of muses, but there’s something about Shiro’s smile that feels like poetry. 

He wants to chase this feeling.

Which is why he startles when Shiro’s smile turns sheepish. “Sorry. I must be bothering you— last thing you need is a weird fan hovering when you’re working. I can get out of your hair.” 

Shiro punctuates the words with one last swallow of his coffee. He crumbles up the paper cup. 

Keith panics. All he can focus on, in that moment, is some way to keep Shiro there— to not let him get away. 

He’s really never felt like this before. 

“You think I can’t be a model?” he asks, snagging on the first thing that sprints into his mind. 

It works, though. Shiro tilts his head, bemused. “What?” 

“Before,” Keith clarifies. “You told Allura I’m a musician, not a model.” He clears his throat. “You think I can’t look at a camera like a lover or whatever she was saying?” 

Shiro takes his bait. He pushes his hands into his pockets and juts one hip out, leaning into Keith’s space— open, inviting. His smile is light, curled up more in one corner, flashing a dimple. “You actually have the face for it, I think. I’m not an expert, but… you’re really pretty.” 

His words seem to catch up with him then because his entire face flames red. It’s almost instantaneous. One second, he’s standing there, cool and collected in his leather jacket, blatantly checking Keith out, and the next moment, he’s red all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“I mean— ah, anyone would think so,” Shiro says, quietly. “You have, uh, nice cheekbones.” 

Keith lifts his hand, touching his cheek absently and then feeling stupid for doing so, whipping his hand back down. He wants to laugh. 

God, he’s so bad at flirting. But it seems like Shiro might be just as bad. If this _is_ flirting.

“Thank you?” Keith asks. “But I mean… _aren’t_ you an expert?” 

Shiro blinks at him and Keith nearly waffles.

“You’re a model, aren’t you?” Keith presses. 

If possible, Shiro’s face turns even pinker. “Wh— oh. You’ve seen—” He coughs, embarrassed, and looks down, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, some sort of nervous tic, knocking some of his hair loose. “Wow. I mean, I’ve only done a few jobs, really— and all for Allura.” 

“Yeah,” Keith says, crossing his arms. “Romelle used the pictures in her pitch for this video.” 

“Wow,” Shiro breathes, some of his blush subsiding. He laughs, the softest melody— like the softest strand of a piano laced through a ballad. “Small world.” 

His reaction’s a stark difference from the cool way he looked before. But there’s something sweet about this, too: Earnest. Unexpected. Sweet. 

“I guess you could say you inspired this whole thing,” Keith says. He imagines guitar strings strumming, a building chorus, an ode to stars in someone’s eyes. Maybe— 

Shiro laughs, embarrassed and just a touch self-deprecating. “I’m not really a model. I mean, I’m not a professional or anything. It’s just something I’ve been dipping my toe into.” 

“You’re really good,” Keith says and wonders if that’s somehow too revealing. 

“Thanks,” Shiro says. “I mean, Allura was mostly doing me a favor. She said it helped her out, too, but I dunno.” 

He fiddles with his hair, tucking a long strand behind his ear, glancing down. Keith finds himself drifting closer, shuffling, swaying into Shiro’s space. 

“What kind of favor?” Keith asks, and then is quick to add, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.” 

Shiro considers, quiet for a long moment. He glances around and lets his eyes settle on Keith, just studying him. He must see something in Keith’s eyes, though, because he shrugs and answers. “I got into an accident about a year ago. Hence this.” He pulls his right hand out of his pocket, wriggling his prosthetic fingers. “Allura thought it’d help with a confidence boost, you know? And she said it’d do her a favor since she wanted her new line to be all about the unexpected.”

“Unexpected, huh,” Keith muses aloud.

“What’s more unexpected than a guy like me wearing lace, I guess?”

“You don’t sound so sure,” Keith says. 

Shiro’d offered it all with a casual sort of nonchalance, but something in the way his eyes flick down suggests it’s anything but offhand. He’s revealing something. Keith’s sure to listen, to not miss a single word. 

“I don’t think it is. It’s not my first time wearing things like that,” Shiro says. “But I guess most people are surprised when they find out it’s something I’m into. So, I guess as far as a marketing ploy, it works, even if I don’t think I’m her target demographic.” 

His smile turns just a touch bitter and Keith’s immediate reaction is to hunt down anyone who’d make him wilt like this. 

It’s an absurd reaction— he hardly knows him. But still, he can’t help but think of that last picture— Shiro smiling into the camera, his smile muffled against his laced palm, his eyes shining and beautiful, hair framing his face. That genuine happiness Keith saw, he thinks, wasn’t acting at all— not a model flirting for the camera, but a man genuinely happy with what he’s wearing. 

“I liked it,” Keith says. “I thought you looked really good. And it was the aesthetic we were going for.” 

“I’m honored to be so inspiring,” Shiro teases around a light smile. “Guess I’m a little like a harmonica during a guitar solo.” 

Keith wrinkles his nose. “You’re no harmonica.” 

He must say it with too much seriousness, because Shiro’s smile turns boyish and he starts laughing. “Wow,” he sighs, theatrically. Flirting. “That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me.” 

He keeps chuckling and, a moment later, Keith can’t help but join in, laughing, his cheeks warming pink around his smile. 

Shiro smiles back at Keith. “You should tell Allura you think so, anyway. She’ll be happy.” 

Keith doesn’t want to be rude and admit that he doesn’t give a shit about Allura’s opinion. His focus is entirely on Shiro. 

“I’m glad you could find something you like doing,” Keith says, and finds he genuinely means it. He’s not one for platitudes or small talk. 

There’s something about Shiro. He wants to memorize the way he’s smiling now, that look in his eyes. He wants to put voice to the way his stomach’s squirming in his gut right now. He wants to write an ode to his smile. He wants to sing a ballad about him. For the first time, Keith wonders if he could write a song and it would stick. 

Shiro’s smile is delicate, as gentle as the lace he wears. “Thanks for saying so.” 

He looks down, fiddling with his pocket, and then glances up at Keith. Keith thinks he sees the moment Shiro decides to press a little closer, body angling towards Keith. 

“So…” he says. “Which pictures did your manager use, then?” 

“Uh,” Keith says, blushing. He doesn’t want to admit quite how many times he’s watched the video and has each picture somewhat pathetically memorized. “A bunch of high-collared stuff. White and black lace sets.” 

“Hmm,” Shiro hums, thoughtfully. He assesses Keith and then offers, tentatively, “I’ve done a few other pieces with Allura.” 

He waits, biting his lip. Keith swallows. He finishes his coffee and tosses away the cup. 

“Yeah?” Keith prompts, voice hushed. He doesn’t think he’s misinterpreting Shiro’s relief, how it flashes in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Shiro answers, digging in his pocket and pulling out his phone. He unlocks it and starts typing. “I can show you, if you want.” He glances up at him, assessing. “If you’re interested.” 

Keith meets his eyes and says, quietly, feeling utterly revealed: “Definitely interested.” 

Shiro’s smile is a private little curve as Keith slides up to his side. He looks on as Shiro pulls up an Instagram feed. Keith never actually tried to google Shiro when he first saw his pictures— he figured trying to search for _buff guy in lingerie_ would head down the wrong road, as if there was any other road he was running down— but now Shiro makes it look laughably easy: he pulls up an Instagram for Allura’s brand and scrolls down before thumbing open one of the pictures. 

He shows it to Keith— the pictures that Romelle used and with a swipe of his thumb, a few similar pieces in different colors. Romelle seems to have skipped over the red and purple pieces. 

There’re a few shots of Shiro in corsets, thigh-high stockings with crossed ankles, tight leather gloves going up to his elbows. There’s more of the cosmic makeup style, his face covered in different constellations and night skies, thumb caught beneath a lace strap and tugging it from his shoulder. 

Keith glances up at Shiro. He’s blushing, eyes flickering between the pictures and Keith, as if gauging his reaction. Keith isn’t sure what Shiro sees. He only knows he wants Shiro to keep looking. 

Up close, Keith can see how dark Shiro’s eyes go when looking at him. His eyes trace over Keith’s face, drinking him in. Keith holds his gaze as steady as he can manage but can’t help but glance down at his mouth. He knows Shiro notices it, if the way Shiro licks his lips is any indication. 

Something burns low in Keith’s belly. He wants to harness that. Again and again. 

Feeling bold, Keith asks, “So which one’s your favorite?” 

Shiro considers, blushing, and then scrolls through the feed. “This one,” he admits in a quiet voice. “Here.” 

He turns his phone to show Keith. 

It’s Shiro on a winged-back chair, arching a little. He’s wearing a body suit of sheer lace. It hugs high on his neck and unlike the other pieces Keith’s seen, this one has sleeves that hug around his biceps. There’re keyholes down the front, over his chest and stomach. Straps run down his thighs, attaching the matching black lace thigh-highs to the body suit. There’re darts and folds on the bodysuit, directing the eye. 

Beneath it all, Shiro’s body is poised, his chest wide, his biceps flexed, his abs looking perfectly lickable. Shiro stares just slightly off the camera, brushing his hair away from his face, smiling. It’s an inviting smile— boyish and sweet, and just a little coy. Like he’s waiting for the person just beyond the camera to join him. The pose and smile isn’t necessarily sexy, but he looks at ease, he looks like he’s having fun— and Keith thinks, quietly, that it’s the sexiest picture he’s seen of Shiro. 

“I like it,” Keith declares, looking back up at Shiro to find Shiro studying him in turn. He doesn’t know what it is about Shiro that possesses him to keep talking, but he says, quietly, “You look really good.” 

“Yeah?” Shiro asks. 

“You look hot,” Keith says, bluntly. 

Shiro perks up, cheeks flushing and his smile more genuine. “You think so?” 

“You’re really fucking hot,” Keith says, bolstered by Shiro’s smile. 

He watches Shiro’s smile turns a little secretive. “So are you.” 

Keith feels his face heat up. “Oh.” 

“I said I was a fan. I meant it.” 

“Well,” Keith says, throat dry. “I guess you could say I’m a fan of yours, too.” 

Shiro tilts his head, his smile still enigmatic. “Fan of lingerie, huh?” 

“Sure.” 

They’re at a crossroads. Keith can see it— can see the moment Shiro assesses him and must like what he sees. Keith watches Shiro bite his bottom lip, shoring himself up. 

And then, quietly, Shiro admits, “I’m actually wearing some.” 

If Keith were still holding his coffee cup, he’d have sent it to the floor by now. He stares up at him. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” Shiro says with a casual shrug, his smile coy. “Maybe you’ll get to see it in person some time?” 

Before Keith can answer, Shiro steps back and _winks_. Keith’s already stepping after him, seeking to stay in his personal bubble, his throat absolutely dry. 

But Romelle chooses that moment to reappear, grabbing Keith by his arm. “Hello? Earth to Keith? I’ve been calling you,” she tuts, dragging him away. “Come on. We’re ready to start.” 

Keith stares after Shiro even as he’s dragged away. Shiro gives him a little wave, something like a promise in his eyes. 

-

Keith doesn’t know how he gets through the hours and hours of recording, all the different takes of them just lip-syncing as they play their instruments. But Keith thinks about what Allura said— looking into the camera like a lover— and takes on the challenge. During one take, he rips his jacket off, grabs his mic, and leans into it, his eyes staring straight into Shiro’s eyes. 

Shiro’s standing just behind the banks of cameras, watching with Allura. His eyes widen slightly when Keith just _stares_ at him, and then he grins, never taking his eyes off Keith in turn. 

Keith thinks he does a fairly good job of looking like he’s looking at a lover, even if once the director calls cut, Allura scolds him for being so cavalier with an expensive jacket. 

“Wow,” Hunk says. “What’s with the sexy rocker vibe?” 

Pidge shoots a look at Keith and then looks pointedly over at Shiro. “Duh.” 

“Wow,” Hunk says again. 

Keith doesn’t even care. He licks his lips, pushing his hair away from his face and winks at Shiro, just to see if he’ll go slack-jawed.

He does. Keith feels very triumphant about that. 

-

“This is going to be such a nerdy request,” Shiro says after production wraps for the day. “But could I get your guys’ autographs?” 

Lance, Hunk, and Pidge all swivel their heads around to stare at Keith in undisguised shock. Keith’s proud of himself for feeling collected, his hands in his pockets so nobody can see them shaking. 

“Sure,” Keith says. “Anything for a fan.” 

Pidge’s lip curls like she wants to gag. Keith ignores her. 

Shiro digs in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a folded-up piece of paper. He unfolds it with deep care. It’s an old playbill from one of their earlier shows— nearly two years ago. It’s not the Balmera Ballroom show where Lance went rogue with the harmonica, but a few shows after that, in the autumn. Keith used to design all their playbills and he recognizes his own doodles running along the page, framing their band logo. 

“I brought this along hoping you’d say yes,” Shiro confesses.

Shiro digs in his pocket and pulls out a pen and holds it out to the group. Lance snags it first and uses Hunk’s back to sign his name. Then, the band passes it between one another until it finally gets to Keith. 

Shiro grins at him. “It’s a shame they aren’t actually letting you guys sing.” 

“It’s standard,” Lance pipes up. “We’ll need to dub it over later. Or they’ll just use the track itself.” 

“Guess that makes sense,” Shiro agrees, eyes on Keith as he shoves Lance around and signs his name against his back. He caps the pen and holds both it and the signed playbill back to Shiro. 

Shiro’s downright tender as he carefully folds the playbill up and puts it back in his pocket. 

He grins at them all. “Thanks. I’m a huge fan.” 

“I’m _suuuuure_ you are,” Lance says, and Keith stomps on his foot. “Ow! Damn it, Keith!” 

“We’re always happy to meet a fan,” Pidge demurs. 

She sounds like she might want to say something more but then notices the way Keith and Shiro just start staring at each other. Keith can see her judgement out of the corner of his eye. He’s unwilling to cast her a similarly sarcastic look because it means looking away from Shiro. 

“Oooookay,” she drawls. “I guess we’re just gonna… go over here.” 

“You really weren’t kidding about being a fan,” Keith marvels as his friends slip away into their dressing room. Good riddance, he figures. 

“Why would I be kidding?” Shiro asks, and smiles. “I love the way you sing. The first time I heard it, it… it really stuck with me.” 

Keith bites his lip. “Yeah?” 

Shiro nods. “I’ve listened to you guys for years. But this past year… I don’t know. It really helped me whenever I could listen to you. Especially during my PT. Some of your songs… you can _feel_ the expectation, you know? How much you guys want it. Sometimes I’d just sit and listen and it’d just… center me. Like, hmm…” He pauses, considering, and then says, “Like, if I’m more patient and just listen, then I can focus. Sort of… ‘patience yields focus’ kind of thing.” 

“Patience yields focus,” Keith mimics, testing the words. “I like it. Sounds like a song.” 

As soon as the words leave him, he realizes it’s true. It sounds like a song. Keith can picture the bridge into the chorus, the mounting tension in Hunk’s base as he weaves it through with Keith’s guitar. 

Fuck. It sounds like a song in his mind. 

Shiro laughs. “You have my full permission to use that, if you want.” 

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll write a song a dedicate it to you,” Keith says, feeling bold again. It’s a joke and it’s not. 

It’s worth it to see the way Shiro glances down, his eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. He looks bashful for one blink of Keith’s eyes, then he flicks his eyes back up to him, holding his gaze. 

“Only if you serenade me with it,” Shiro tells him. 

Keith laughs, feeling breathless. He steps a little closer, swaying into his space. “I could.” 

“Oh yeah?” Shiro asks, voice dropping low. 

“You seem to be inspiration enough for a song or two,” Keith answers. 

“Thanks, Keith,” Shiro murmurs. 

Somehow, it’s the sound of Shiro saying his name that undoes him. Keith doesn’t quite startle, but he feels it zip down his spine, soothed by the soft honey of Shiro’s voice. 

Keith, breathless, asks, “So… what are you doing after this?” 

“Hanging out with you, I imagine,” Shiro murmurs, and then laughs. “Or is that too presumptuous?” 

“No,” Keith says. “That’s what I imagine, too.” 

Shiro’s smile looks relieved and Keith feels a hand ghost over his hip, questioning. Keith holds his eyes, burning and steady, until Shiro slides his hand over his hip and holds tight. 

“Let me buy you a drink?” Shiro asks. 

“Sure. Let me just… I gotta get back into my clothes,” Keith says, taking a step back. “Doubt Allura’ll let me walk out of here with all this.” 

“You’re right about that,” Shiro agrees. 

Keith walks blindly back towards the dressing room, imagining going to a bar with Shiro. Imagines swirling his drink and joking with Shiro, imagines pulling him onto a dance floor and grinding against him, imagines pressing his mouth to his ear and singing along to the words just to feel Shiro shiver. 

Imagines pulling out a notebook and scribbling down the words pulsing in his gut before he loses them all. 

It’d be a nice night. It’d be a good first date. 

Keith’s out of practice. It’s only luck that he’s managed to snag Shiro this far. 

Keith slips into the dressing room. His bandmates’ things are hung up on the hangers, instruments packed up and nowhere in sight. If only they could move so quickly when it comes to actually getting to band practice. 

Keith grabs his notebook and scribbles down three sentences as they float in his mind, then slams the cover shut again. He could get dressed and leave here with Shiro, have a first date, and see where it goes. 

Or. 

Keith turns, opening the door and leaning against the frame. He finds Shiro loitering, politely waiting outside. 

Shiro looks up as the sliver of light from the dressing room falls on him, catching his white hair. He tilts his head, pushing himself off the wall. “You’re still in Allura’s clothes.” 

Keith considers, staring up at Shiro. Then he whips his hand out, fisting in Shiro’s shirt and pulling him inside. Shiro makes a sound and stumbles after him. Once inside, Keith shoves the door shut behind Shiro and leans into his space. 

“Well?” Keith asks, hesitating only for a moment, waiting for indication that Shiro’s going to say no.

But Shiro just grins down at him, eyebrows lifting. Quietly, he whispers, “Well?” 

Keith’s always been just the littlest bit reckless. 

He thumbs the lock and pops it into place and then leans up, catching Shiro’s mouth into a kiss. It’s lopsided at first, kissing smile more than lips, but Shiro gives a throaty chuckle and then corrects, tipping his face down to meet Keith. 

It’s like heaven. Keith sucks in a sharp breath and presses up closer, sliding his mouth against Shiro’s. Shiro’s hand finds his hip again, squeezing, and that only fuels Keith onward. He surges up, licking at Shiro’s bottom lip and then pressing closer when Shiro opens to him. He mouths against Shiro’s kiss, sucking on his lip and letting his teeth drag teasingly over the swell of it. 

Shiro gives a breathless sound, his other hand coming up to cup the back of Keith’s head. Keith can’t blame this on alcohol or sleep deprivation— it’s just pure desire that pushes him onward, whispering Shiro’s name as he licks into his mouth, smiling a little when Shiro’s answer is a low moan, his fingers clenching in Keith’s hair. 

Keith’s hands lift, too, touching Shiro’s cheeks and then threading backwards, weaving into the thick bundle of his hair, gripping tight and laying worship to his mouth. He holds back a pathetic keen as he presses himself flush against Shiro, pinning him up against the door. But Shiro hardly seems to mind, his mouth soft against his, his voice breathless as he pants out a soft, gasping whimper when Keith bites his lip. 

“Fuck,” Shiro whispers into his mouth and Keith feels his chest swell with breath, pressed up against his. 

“Yeah,” Keith answers, unsure what he’s answering to, only knowing that he wants to get closer. He’s never done something like this before— made out with a man he barely knows. But there’s something electric about Shiro, there’s something about the way he looks at him that makes Keith want to know everything, to learn very inch of his body, every taste of his skin. 

And then Shiro’s hands drop down, squeezing Keith’s ass and then sliding down over his thighs. He picks Keith up, quick enough that Keith nearly feels dizzy with it, especially when Shiro spins them around and pins Keith up against the wall. 

“Holy shit,” Keith gasps, breaking the kiss, his legs wrapping around Shiro’s hips. He’s never been picked up before. “Wow, holy shit.” 

Shiro laughs, breathless and a little panty, his face flushed and his lips looking so damn kissable. “Okay?” 

“Fuck, yeah,” Keith assures him and drags him in for a hard kiss. He squeezes his legs tight around Shiro’s slim waist and groans as Shiro presses him up against the wall, deepening the kiss with a sweep of his tongue. 

It’s easy to get lost in the sensation of it. Shiro holds him up like it’s easy, hands cupping his thighs, just shy of palming his ass, and he can feel the powerful line of Shiro’s body pressing him against the solid wood of the door. 

His mouth, though, is soft and reverential as he kisses Keith, like Keith’s a song he’s trying to memorize, like he wants to share all his breath with him. Keith feels the ghost of his teeth scraping his lip, the slide of his breath, the gasp of Keith’s own name on Shiro’s tongue. It’s heavenly. Keith could write a song about this alone. He wants to. But that means stopping.

No, he’d rather think about how good Shiro feels pressed up against him, how good he feels kissing him. 

“About that drink…” Shiro murmurs, mouthing at Keith’s lips. 

“Fuck that drink,” Keith mutters, cupping Shiro’s face and dragging him in, licking into his mouth with a groan. “I’ll get you a drink later.” 

Shiro laughs, breathless and delighted, and lets Keith shove his leather jacket off his shoulders. He wriggles, unwilling to move away from Keith or set him down, and it takes some adjusting to get it off him. Finally, it drops to the ground and Keith runs his fingertips over his forearms, tracing over his skin and shoving his shirt sleeves up when he catches on them. His fingers slip beneath and he feels the whisper of lace between his fingertips.

He pulls back, blinking at Shiro. Shiro grins back. “I told you I was wearing it, didn’t I?” 

“Fuck,” Keith says, with deep feeling, and wriggles enough that Shiro has to set him down. Once on his feet, he just shoves at Shiro, corralling him towards the sad looking couch in the corner of the room. 

He pushes Shiro down onto it and then climbs into his lap, kissing him hard. He grabs at Shiro’s shirt, tugging on it pointedly. Shiro chuckles, hands skimming up Keith’s back. 

“Didn’t think this is what you meant when you said you have to get back into your regular clothes,” Shiro teases. 

Keith narrows his eyes at him and says, bluntly, “I’m going to fuck you. Unless you have a problem with that.” 

Shiro grins, eyes bright, face flushed, and mouth swollen from Keith’s kisses. “_Definitely_ not going to be a problem.” 

“Good,” Keith growls and shoves Shiro’s arms up over his head so he can shuck off his shirt. 

Keith leans back as he pulls his shirt off and exposes the black lace lingerie set Shiro’s wearing. It’s even different in person, stretched taut over his body, chest swelling with Shiro’s breath. Keith drops his hand down to touch his naked skin through one of the keyholes, thumb brushing absently over one of his nipples. His fingers dip into the black strap running over the length of his chest, framing his pecs. 

It’s the perfect combination of lace and black straps. Shiro looks a pretty picture on the couch. Keith just wants to lay worship to him.

Shiro sucks in a breath, blinking up at Keith. He studies Keith’s reaction. 

“I love when your eyes do that,” Shiro murmurs.

“Do what?” Keith asks, looking up from ogling Shiro’s chest. 

“They get all dark and intense…” Shiro says. He swallows, licking his lips and sounding so punched-out. “They look the same during the big moments in your songs, too.” 

Keith refrains from saying something ridiculous and sappy, like how Shiro reminds him of a series of impossible guitar chords, like trying to nail a song in a range that stretches him to his limits, like that shivery feeling he feels every time he completes a set and looks out over the crowd and knows he’s made it, that maybe he belongs. 

Keith cups Shiro’s shoulder and pushes him down so he sprawls across the couch. He grabs at Shiro’s boots and yanks them off, then makes quick work of his belt and pulls that off, too. 

He leans back, panting as he stares down at Shiro, lying out, his arms folded over the couch arm behind him. He doesn’t pose, just lies there organically, letting Keith drink his fill— and that’s somehow too much at once. He feels all the blood in his body flowing down into his pants, confined and uncomfortable. 

He lets his eyes drag over him, lingering on the obvious bulge in the black lace. He swallows thickly, fingertips ghosting down Shiro’s stomach, tracing his abs, and stopping just at the black straps crossing an x-pattern over his belly. 

“Like what you see?” Shiro asks, both teasing and hopeful. 

Keith looks up at him. “Yeah.” He presses his hand down against Shiro’s belly, teasing, not drifting lower to touch his cock. “There anything in particular you like?” 

Shiro laughs. “Anything’s good.” 

“You gonna be angry if I accidentally rip this?” Keith asks, tugging on one of the straps bisecting Shiro’s hip. 

Shiro laughs, looking delighted and vaguely impressed. “Only accidentally?” 

Keith laughs but waits, thumbing at Shiro’s hip.

Shiro considers and then says, “If you actually rip this, _you’re_ buying the drinks later.” 

“Got it,” Keith accepts. 

“Now…” Shiro whispers. “Come down here and appreciate me.” 

“Oh, I do,” Keith answers and Shiro grins. Keith stoops down to kiss him, pressing full-bodied to him. He rocks his hips down, pressing his cock up against Shiro’s. Even with fabric between them, he feels how thick and hard Shiro is, how hard Keith is in turn. Shiro gasps and then gives a pleased whimper as he bites down hard on Keith’s lip. 

“Off,” Shiro mutters into the kiss, grabbing at Keith’s clothes. 

Keith feels just the briefest flush of embarrassment as he shrugs out of his red jacket and then tugs his shirt off over his head. He’s not nearly as pretty as Shiro is, he thinks— not as muscular and just wearing boring old underwear.

Shiro hardly looks concerned or upset by it, though, eyes dragging over Keith’s body as he exposes it inch by inch. His hands lift and drag down his chest, nails kissing over his skin. 

“You’re so pretty,” Shiro marvels. 

Keith ducks his head, blushing. 

“Leave them,” Shiro says when Keith tries to pull his fingerless gloves off. 

Keith grins, wriggles his fingers, and then drags them down Shiro’s chest as he leans in and kisses along his jaw. He drags his teeth, mouthing and sucking at his skin, working his way down his neck. He nibbles at his skin and feels Shiro give a pleased hum, arching beneath him. 

“Yeah, Keith,” Shiro whispers and Keith feels himself set on fire again at the sound of his name. He digs his nails into the firm skin of Shiro’s chest, dragging down over his body, tracing the lines between lace and skin. 

He wriggles between Shiro’s legs so his hand has room to drag over the sharp line of his cock. Shiro sucks in a sharp breath as Keith touches him, just dragging his palm. 

“You’re pretty big,” Keith marvels, dragging one fingertip from crown to base. Shiro wriggles beneath him, shifting his hips up. The lace pulls taut over his cock and his cockhead peeks out, pressing against his belly. 

“Thanks,” Shiro says, laughing, embarrassed and delighted at once. He hums out when Keith drags his full palm down the length of him. He ruts up, seeking the friction. “Keith,” he whispers. “You’re so pretty. I—” 

Keith grunts and lurches down, kissing Shiro sharply. He slips his hand beneath the lace and curls around Shiro’s cock, squeezing him. Shiro keens into the kiss. 

Keith ducks his head, watching his hand inside the lace cupping Shiro’s cock. He’s thick in his hand, slick at the head. Keith slides his hand down over him, working his way up and down the length of his cock, listening to Shiro’s sharpened, delighted exhale. 

The leather of his gloves drags over the sensitive skin of Shiro’s cock and it only takes a few strokes before Shiro starts trembling. 

“Like that?” Keith asks, grinning. 

Shiro huffs a breath, lifting his hips to chase Keith’s hand, sliding sweetly into his fist. “Come on, baby, I know you can do more.” 

If the sound of Shiro saying Keith’s name sent electric shocks down his spine, it’s nothing like hearing his honeyed voice call him _baby._ Keith ducks his head with a low groan, squeezing his cock. 

“Dunno how much more we can do,” Keith says. 

Shiro snorts. “Didn’t you say you were going to fuck me?” He rocks up into Keith’s hand, swiveling his hips. “Get creative.” 

Keith narrows his eyes at him and Shiro grins, rolling a steady pace into Keith’s hand. He looks flushed, his hair knocked loose from his bun and pooling around him. Keith forces himself to look away, eyes sweeping around the room. 

With great effort, he pulls himself away from Shiro and trips his way around the room, digging through drawers until he finds something at least vaguely suitable. He returns to Shiro with a grin, waving the bottle between his fingertips. 

“Hope you’re ready to get dirty,” Keith teases. 

Shiro snorts a laugh and lifts his legs up, spreading them to make room for Keith to drop down between them. “Definitely.” 

Keith grins and rewards Shiro by ducking down, pressing his mouth against the base of his cock, licking at him through the lace. Shiro sucks in a sharp breath and makes a soft sound, hips lifting. Keith loves how responsive he is, how his body shifts beneath his mouth. He grips Shiro’s thigh and spreads it, leaning in close as he mouths his way up the length of his cock through the lace. Shiro’s cockhead still peeks out at the top and Keith laps at it in little kitten licks, humming at the taste of him. 

He mouths at Shiro’s stomach, his fingers hooking into the sheer lace and tugging it down so he can drag his tongue along the crown of his cock, mouth curling playfully. He’s teasing, not applying any real pressure, and smiles as he feels Shiro’s thighs start to tremble. 

“Fuck,” Shiro groans and Keith loves that feeling of power that courses through him, that satisfaction of knowing he’s the one drawing these words from Shiro, all of these sounds. “Fuck,” Shiro hisses, quietly, his hand finding Keith’s hair and tangling up tight. “Fuck, Keith.” 

“Yeah,” Keith whispers, tugging the lingerie aside so he can sweep his fingers down behind his balls, stroking his dry fingers along his hole just to get Shiro to cry out. “Yeah, Shiro. Yeah.” 

He pulls back to slick his fingers up with the lotion he found. Shiro watches him, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, his hair falling in his face. Keith reaches out with his free hand to brush it away and cup his cheek, a brief moment of sweetness. 

“I’m going to make you feel good,” Keith vows, with maybe more weight than warrants a random hook-up. But he feels the need to say it. 

Shiro smiles at him and lifts his hips, reaching down to tug his lingerie aside, giving Keith the space to stroke his slicked fingers up against him. 

“Go on,” he goads Keith. “Want to feel you.” 

He says it so sweetly, his mouth pliant and kissable, his cheeks flushed. His chest rises and falls with his breath, also flushed a pretty pink against the black lingerie. He looks like a dream, stretched out on a couch, white hair and black lace, his attention fully on Keith. 

Keith’s never felt so seen by a near-stranger, not that he’s one for casual sex. Despite his cultivated bad boy rocker vibe, he isn’t one to fuck people in his dressing room. But there’s something about Shiro that keeps pulling him in. 

He strokes over Shiro’s hole, teasing, letting his fingertips catch on the rim without breeching. He knows he’s good at this. He’s taken himself apart on his own fingers enough times to know that when Shiro bites his lip, it isn’t performative. Nothing Shiro does is— all of it is telling, organic and sweet. He sucks in a breath when Keith teases him, pushing his fingertips in and drawing them back out again. He presses his palm flat against his skin, letting the leather drag. 

“_Keith,_” Shiro whispers, and that’s what Keith was looking for. He thinks he might be addicted to the way Shiro says his name, how sexed-out he sounds, the hiss of his breath. 

“Okay?” Keith asks and doesn’t wait for Shiro to answer before he slides two fingers inside of him just to feel the stretch. And Shiro rises to meet him, hips jerking up and mouth falling open in a pleased gasp. 

It feels good. Shiro is tight and squeezes around his fingers instinctively when Shiro scissors them open. 

“Think you can come just from this?” Keith asks, watching the way Shiro’s cock twitches when Keith crooks his fingers. Shiro is warm and silky around him, body stretched open, thighs shaking. 

Shiro whimpers, biting his lip, and then huffs a breath that might have been a laugh once. “Rather come on your cock, baby.” He tilts his chin back, peering up at Keith. “You going to give it to me?” 

Keith loses the steady pace of his fingers and groans, his cock twitching at the thought. Shiro sees it and smiles, delighted. 

Keith keeps fucking his fingers into Shiro but squirms down to mouth at Shiro’s cock again, sucking the cockhead into his mouth and twisting his tongue, corkscrewing it with gentle persistence. Keith bobs his head and Shiro starts panting, seeming torn between chasing one feeling over the other— rocking down hard against Keith’s fingers but seeking Keith’s mouth. 

He lets Shiro shove his face away, keening. “Keith, Keith, come on,” Shiro begs. “I need—” 

Keith twists his fingers and Shiro cuts off with a low moan. “What do you want?” Keith asks, mouthing at Shiro’s hip. “Tell me, Shiro. Want me to tell you how pretty you look? Want me to make you feel good?” 

Shiro groans, like there’s nothing in the world he wants more. And Keith knows he could write poetry about the way Shiro looks now, sprawled out on the couch, the black lace stretching over his body. His hand is white-knuckled where he holds the lingerie off to the side for Keith’s fingers disappearing inside him. 

Keith draws away, pulling his fingers out of him. “Turn over.” 

Shiro groans, looking like he wants to obey and protest at once. It takes a moment, but he does as Keith asks, turning over onto his stomach. Keith grabs his hips and yanks him back, pulling him up onto his hands and knees. 

Shiro’s hair spills out of its bun, curling around his shoulders and down his back. Keith brushes it away gently, running his palm up the curve of Shiro’s spine, fingers catching and tugging on the straps of black lace criss-crossing his body. There’re scars here and Keith drops a reverential kiss against his shoulder blade, palm pressing against the swell of Shiro’s ass. 

“You’re so pretty,” Keith praises, mouthing at the back of Shiro’s neck, nosing into his hair. He kisses each knob of Shiro’s spine when he ducks his head at Keith’s words. Keith kisses down his spine, working his way back even as Shiro reaches behind him and pulls the lingerie aside, wordlessly inviting. 

Keith’s fingers press inside Shiro again and Shiro opens to him, arching his back. 

“So beautiful,” Keith praises, stroking his fingers inside of him. “Fuck, how are you so beautiful?” 

Shiro’s breathless, laughing and delighted. “Yeah, yeah, I’m pretty.” 

Keith figures that, as a model, Shiro must hear it a lot— but Keith wonders how often he believes it. He wants to make him believe it. Someday, maybe. He bites at the small of Shiro’s back, licking at the dimples, teeth catching on the black lace and tugging. 

Shiro gives a pleased sigh as Keith wriggles a third finger inside him, just to tease, barely able to match any sort of pace. He just wants to feel him. He just wants to devote hours to knowing every inch and line of Shiro’s body. 

He’s beautiful, arching beneath him like this, body pliant beneath him. Keith palms at his ass with his free hand, pulling him open enough to watch his fingers disappearing inside of his body. It’s obscene, watching the way his rim stretches around Keith’s lithe fingers, how puffy and pink he looks. Keith wants to lick inside him. He wants to come inside him again and again and suck his come out. He wants Shiro to fuck his mouth and to swallow every drop of him. He wants Shiro to sit on his face and suffocate him. 

He’s overwhelmed with everything he wants to do. He settles for fucking his fingers inside Shiro in a punishing pace, a promise for when his cock is inside him. 

“_Keith,_” Shiro groans. 

Keith rises onto his knees, nodding his head, grabbing at Shiro’s hip to guide him back, and fucking him forcefully onto his fingers. It’s not enough. 

“Fuck me,” Shiro groans, head ducking down as he wriggles his hips back against Keith’s hand, seeking more. 

As he pulls his fingers out of Shiro, Keith leans in and presses a sloppy kiss against his hole. It makes Shiro fall forward onto his hands, arching with a pleased gasp, wet and yearning. 

“Feeling good?” Keith asks, voice husky. 

“Fuck,” Shiro whispers. “Yes. Please.” 

Keith squeezes his hips, draping himself over his body, his cock pressing into the cleft of Shiro’s ass. He slides an open-mouthed kiss against the back of Shiro’s neck and over his shoulder, nuzzling. 

Shiro hums, blissful and sweet, but rocks his hips back in a demanding little tell. “Keith.” 

Keith bites his shoulder, grinning. “Patience.” 

Shiro huffs. He wriggles his hips back, the very picture of impatience, and Keith wants to be a brat, wants to make Shiro wait, wants to change his mind, flip Shiro around, and make him watch as he fingers himself open and sinks down onto Shiro’s cock instead, just because it’ll mean waiting. But he thinks of sinking his cock inside of Shiro, of fucking into him, grabbing his hair, laying worshipful kisses to his neck. And he knows his decision’s been made. 

He presses a hand to Shiro’s back, fingers splayed, tucking inside the straps holding his lacey top in place, and shoves him down. Shiro goes with a grunt, collapsing onto his elbows and shoving his ass back against Keith’s cock. 

Keith groans, squeezing his eyes shut to steady himself, and then fists his cock, stroking himself a few times. He studies the delicate rose patterned lace covering Shiro’s ass before grabbing at it with both hands, ripping it easily down the middle and exposing Shiro’s hole. 

Shiro gasps, loud enough that Keith worries for a moment that he might have overstepped, that Shiro really wasn’t okay with that. But Shiro’s gasp quickly tapers off into a pleased keen and he rocks back forcefully against Keith’s cock, letting it slide into the cleft of his ass and press up against his hole. 

“Fuck, Keith!” Shiro says, encouraging, and Keith hardly needs to be told more. He guides his cock to press up against Shiro’s body.

When he slides in, it’s blissful, it’s perfect. Shiro rocks back to meet him and it’s a smooth, easy slide. Shiro sighs out, pleased, whole body shivering once and then relaxing as Keith slides home. Keith pants, one hand steady on the small of Shiro’s back, the other pulling him open so he can watch his cock disappearing inside him. It’s even better than watching his fingers fuck into him. 

“Shiro,” Keith whines. 

“Yeah, baby,” Shiro pants, wriggling his hips back. “Fuck, yeah. Fuck me.” 

Keith does. He slides back and then pushes back in again, setting a slow, deep pace. He fucks into Shiro and Shiro rocks back to meet him with pleased, punched-out sounds, his body shaking as his hips roll. He turns his head, watching Keith over his shoulder, panting, his mouth open and breath hushing out of him with each stroke of Keith’s cock inside him.

“Good?” Keith grunts, running his hand along Shiro’s flank. 

Shiro keens, biting his lip and rolling his hips back, squeezing around Keith’s cock. “So good. So good, baby.” 

Keith wants to see Shiro fall apart and works to do just that. He rolls his hips, stroking inside him, angling deep. Shiro keens, whimpering as he rolls his hips to meet him, and they move together. Keith drapes himself over Shiro’s body, palm pressing to his belly and hovering down, ripping the black lace so it falls away in tatters. He palms at Shiro’s cock, squeezing and stroking in time to his movement. 

Shiro claws at the couch, eyes clenched shut and mouth open, near silent in his pleasure. 

It’s nearly too much. Keith fists his hand in Shiro’s hair and drags him back, pulling him up so they’re pressed flush together. He pants against the line of Shiro’s jaw, whispering his name as he mouths and kisses there, dragging his teeth down his neck. 

Shiro swallows and moans, panting out Keith’s name and, with a final stroke, comes over Keith’s fingers. He squeezes around him, trembling, and Keith drags his palm up over his chest, curled tight in the lace of his top and feeling the pounding of his heart, the slick slide of come over his stomach. 

“Shiro,” Keith grunts, fucking into him. 

“Come on, Keith,” Shiro whispers, body arching, hips wriggling. “Come inside me. Want to feel you.” 

He can hardly ignore the way Shiro says it— the words, the squeeze of his body around Keith’s cock, the sound of his name on Shiro’s tongue. Keith groans, burying his face against Shiro’s shoulder, and comes inside him with one final, brutal thrust. 

Shiro keens, body arching, and he squeezes around Keith, milking him dry. He sighs, pleased, as Keith fills him. 

Keith whimpers, too, body trembling as he comes down. He bites at one of the straps of Shiro’s lingerie and then nuzzles against his skin, afraid to lift his eyes and see Shiro’s face, afraid to untangle himself and have this be _over._ He imagines Shiro adjusting his clothes, pulling his hair back into a bun, waving once, and then disappearing forever. 

But Shiro’s hand covers Keith’s where it’s pressed against his belly, tangling their fingers together and lifting it. He kisses each of Keith’s fingertips and then the palm of his hand, licking away the come staining the worn leather of the gloves. 

“So good,” Shiro sighs and Keith feels his heart swell. “Stay inside me for a bit. You feel good.” 

Keith grunts, nuzzling at his neck. He’s going soft inside Shiro, but if Shiro asks it, he won’t move. It feels good to be buried there. He imagines getting hard and just fucking Shiro all over again. 

“Shiro…” 

“Mm, yeah,” Shiro sighs, absently, and bumps his nose against Keith’s temple. “Don’t be rude. Kiss me.” 

Keith chuckles, heart leaping, and finally looks up from Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro smiles at him and then dips in closer, kissing him. The angle’s awkward, but Shiro doesn’t seem to mind, licking sweetly into Keith’s mouth. He holds Keith’s weight easily. 

Keith kisses him in turn, following his lead and eager to stay close. He’s never pegged himself as much of a cuddler, but it’s just another thing about Shiro that makes him want to try. 

Shiro lowers down onto the couch and takes Keith with him. Sprawled out, and with some effort on their part, Shiro settles with Keith spooned up against his body. Shiro kisses him again for Keith’s troubles.

“That’s better,” Shiro whispers, nipping at Keith’s mouth before drawing away from the kiss, smiling gently. “Don’t tell Allura you ripped my underwear.” 

Keith snorts. Somehow, the joke helps ease the anxiety building in his chest. He pushes closer, feeling his cock shift inside Shiro. They both groan, but Shiro tips back to meet Keith, kissing him again. 

They swap lazy kisses and Keith combs his fingers through Shiro’s hair, an apology for the sting of his earlier tugs. Shiro preens against him, wriggling his hips back, as if he might prompt Keith into getting hard again. Keith’s willing to take on the challenge. 

“I don’t usually do this,” Shiro admits in a whisper once they draw back from the kiss. He looks at Keith, something tentative in his expression, and Keith realizes that maybe he’s not the only one feeling uncertain in the wake of orgasm. 

Keith cages Shiro with his body and kisses him hard. He licks into his mouth until he hears Shiro gives the lightest, softest whimper. 

Keith breaks the kiss and says, “Me neither.” 

Shiro looks a little gentler at the edges, something softer in his gaze. “I hope you don’t think I’m some… weird groupie.” 

“Only if you don’t think I’m some perv creeping on your pictures.” 

They look at each other and then Shiro ducks his head, giggling, and it’s the cutest sound in the world. Keith’s heart leaps into his throat and lodges there. He smiles at Shiro, helplessly. 

“I was serious about wanting drinks, though,” Keith says, cautiously. “If you wanted. And… maybe I could get your number?” 

Shiro smiles at him, dimple flashing. “Yeah, Keith. I’d like that.” 

“Good,” Keith whispers, unable to disguise the joy in his voice— not even trying to do so. “Hey, uh… think you could hand me that spiral notebook on the floor?” 

He jerks his chin, indicating where he means. Shiro’s lazy as he stretches out to grab it from the ground. He hands it to Keith and watches Keith untuck the pen from the spiral.

“Uh, this is going to be weird, but uh…” Keith shrugs and just starts scribbling. For once, he doesn’t feel nervous that someone might be able to read it. He scripts the words quickly across the page. Shiro’s silent the whole time, just letting Keith write out what he needs to. 

When Keith stops with a sigh, a full page of lyrics scribbled on the page, Shiro asks, “Inspired?” 

“Ha,” Keith breathes and nuzzles at Shiro’s shoulder. His smile is helpless, near drunk on the thought of it. “Yeah. I really am. I’ll need to polish this up, though. Add some chords.” 

Shiro glances at him, smiling, and wriggles his hips back against him. “But before then…?”

“Mm,” Keith hums, barely muffling his answering grin against Shiro’s shoulder. “But before then, yeah.” 

Shiro squeezes around him and Keith knows that it’s only a matter of a few strokes before he can get hard again and fuck him. He laughs, delighted, and kisses Shiro’s neck just to feel Shiro responding beneath him. 

He feels like he’s soaring. 

It’s a nice feeling— thinking about drinks after, about bringing Shiro back to his shitty apartment, about sitting on the balcony with a beer and singing to Shiro. He already has some chords in his head for the patience yields focus song— tentative title— and imagines what Shiro’s face will look like in the moonlight, eyes bright as Keith serenades him.

He can’t wait to find out. He shoves the notebook off the couch and rolls up to straddle Shiro.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) (including the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/commentbuilder)), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
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>   * “<3” as extra kudos
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> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/stardropdream) // [Dreamwidth](https://stardropdream.dreamwidth.org/)
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> **ETA:** Thank you so much to Ribbit for drawing such [cool sketches](https://twitter.com/ribbitsplace/status/1168859552428822530) of the boys! Be sure to check it out! ♥


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